Readings • Background Sir Henry Newbolt (1862-1938) was a lawyer who, in his thirties, transferred his attention to literature and became one of the best-loved poets of late-Victorian and Edwardian England. He put forward an ideal of English manhood, an ideal that people of that period, by no means only English people, found admirable and inspiring. His best-known poem is the 1898 production "Vitaï Lampada", each of whose three stanzas ends with the exhortation to: "Play up! play up! and play the game!" Of this poem and its author, Paul Fussell has the following to say in his classic literary survey of World War One : The author of these lines was a lifetime friend of Douglas Haig [commander of British forces in WW1].

They had first met when they were students together at [private boys' boarding school] Clifton College … Much later Newbolt wrote: "When I looked into Douglas Haig I saw what was really great — perfect acceptance, which means perfect faith." This version of Haig brings him close to the absolute ideal of what [WW2 hero and author] Patrick Howarth has termed homo newboltiensis, or "Newbolt Man": honorable, stoic, brave, loyal, courteous — and unaesthetic, unironic, unintellectual and devoid of wit. Newbolt was knighted by George V in 1915 for his contributions to Imperial élan. "Drake's Drum" appears in a collection titled Admirals All, published in 1897. On the strength of this book, Newbolt was sometimes tagged as "the naval Kipling." The poem relates to a legend about the late 16th century (1545-1595) English explorer and admiral Sir Francis Drake , who died while on a raiding expedition against Spanish settlements in the West Indies. The legend concerns Drake's drum — the one that would have been beaten on his ship to summon the sailors to their battle stations.

This drum was brought home and hung in Buckland Abbey, near Drake's home port of Plymouth, in the county of Devon. It can still be seen there. According to the legend, if this drum is beaten when England is in danger, Drake will return to save his country once again. (Although an alternative version says only that the drum will be heard beating itself at moments of national crisis.) • Notes "in his hammock … slung atween the round shot" — To bury a sailor at sea, you wrapped him in his hammock, with a cannonball at head and foot to sink the package. "Nombre Dios Bay" — Sir Francis's place of burial; properly "Nombre de Dios," a small town on the north coast of Panama. "Plymouth Hoe" — A hoe is a promontory, a piece of land sticking out into the sea. The dockside at Plymouth has this form. "the island" — St. Nicholas' Island in Drake's time, now called Drake Island; in Plymouth Sound, visible from the Hoe. "the Dons" — The Spanish, England's great enemy all through Drake's career. ————————— This text will be replaced by the flash music player.

————————— Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Yarnder lumes the island, yarnder lie the ships, Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe, An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin' He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?), Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe, "Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore, Strike et when your powder's runnin' low; If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago." Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?), Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin', They shall find him, ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago.

Drake's Drum Poem by Sir Henry Newbolt - Poem Hunter Drake's Drum Poem by Sir Henry Newbolt - Poem Hunter Drake's Drum - Poem by Sir Henry Newbolt Autoplay next video Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, An' dreamin' arl the time O' Plymouth Hoe. Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships, Wi' sailor lads a-dancing' heel-an'-toe, An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin', He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago. Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas, (Capten, art tha' sleepin' there below?) Roving' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease, A' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.

"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore, Strike et when your powder's runnin' low; If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, An' drum them up the Channel as we drumm'd them long ago." Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, An' dreamin arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin' They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago! The Drake Exploration Society - The Legend of Drake's Drum The Drake Exploration Society The Legend of Drake's Drum Susan Jackson I do not propose to relate in detail a legend already so well known, or examine the history behind the drum: this has already been expertly done by Cynthia Gaskell Brown. However, I do propose to say what makes me think that the drum legend might have some basis in fact.

Firstly, the legend was not created by the respective poems of Henry Newbolt and Alfred Noyes; neither was it the product of Victorian jingoism. Newbolt and Noyes utilised a well publicised existing legend. The drum was present in the Abbey in 1799. The folklorist Robert Hunt recorded in the early 19th century, that Betty Donithorne, an ex-housekeeper at Buckland, had told him that, "If the old warrior hears the drum that hangs in the hall of the Abbey and which accompanied him around the world, he rises and has a revel." Brixham fishermen claimed to have heard the drum beating during the Napoleonic Wars. Therefore, the legend dates from the 18th century: well before Newbolt and Noyes. Drake's Drum (photo: Michael Turner) © Buckland Abbey Of course, being over 200 years old, does not add truth to the legend. However, I believe that Drake was the creator of the legend. In the last hours of his life, Drake was seriously ill.

He was delirious and, according to an eye-witness, "...raved in words which nobody cared to record." Some of these words could have given rise to the legend: words that he did not mean in the sense which they were taken and caused the drum to be preserved in the Drake family. There is no evidence whatsoever that the drum accompanied Drake on his circumnavigation, or that it had any particular significance to him personally. It may have been one of the number of side-drums which were listed in the bills of lading for that sad voyage, but we do not know for certain. The drum dates from the 16th century. For some reason it was immediately placed in Buckland Abbey and has been constantly cared for by the Drake family. Thomas Drake and his immediate descendants, must have been the ones who initiated the family care. According to Lipsoombe, Lady Elliot Drake and Isaac Foot, the drum has been on frequent display since the 18th century. Drake's role as a legendary protector of England can also be traced back to the 16th century and probably had its origins in the comments made by Charles Fitz Geffrey in his poem that he wrote only a few months after Drake's death.

"Sir Francis Drake, His Honourable Life's Commendation And His Tragical Death Lamentation..." which ends with the words, The sea no more, heaven then shall be his tomb Where he a new made star eternally Shall shine transparent to spectator's eye But shall to us a radiant light remain He who alive to them a dragon was Shall be a dragon unto them again For with his death his terror shall not pass But still amid the air he shall remain This role continued because England wished it to be so! The children's novel, Knight of Stars and Storms has popularised the belief in the strange powers of Drake's drum. According to the author, you do not even have to strike it: just talk to it nicely. An earlier children's book, Merlin's Magic also had the outcome of the story hingeing on the drum's supernatural powers. The television programme Casualty got to the crux of the matter in the episode called Drake's Drum . The legend of Drake's drum and Drake as England's protector, is obviously not true. However, what matters is that people believe it to be true.

Poets' Corner - Henry Newbolt - Admirals All A Song of Sea Kings EFFINGHAM, Grenville, Raleigh, Drake, Here's to the bold and free! Benbow, Collingwood, Byron, Blake, Hail to the Kings of the Sea! Admirals all, for England's sake, Honour be yours and fame! And honour, as long as waves shall break, To Nelson's peerless name! Admirals all, for England's sake, Honour be yours and fame! And honour, as long as waves shall break, To Nelson's peerless name! Essex was fretting in Cadiz Bay With the galleons fair in sight; Howard at last must give him his way, And the word was passed to fight. Never was schoolboy gayer than he, Since holidays first began: He tossed his bonnet to wind and sea, And under the guns he ran. Drake nor devil nor Spaniard feared, Their cities he put to the sack; He singed His Catholic Majesty's beard, And harried his ships to wrack.

He was playing at Plymouth a rubber of bowls When the great Armada came; But he said, "They must wait their turn, good souls," And he stooped and finished the game. Fifteen sail were the Dutchmen bold, Duncan he had but two; But he anchored them fast where the Texel shoaled, And his colours aloft he flew. "I've taken the depth to a fathom," he cried, "And I'll sink with a right good will: For I know when we're all of us under the tide My flag will be fluttering still." Splinters were flying above, below, When Nelson sailed the Sound: "Mark you, I wouldn't be elsewhere now," Said he, "for a thousand pound!" The Admiral's signal bade him fly But he wickedly wagged his head: He clapped the glass to his sightless eye, And "I'm damned if I see it!" he said. Admirals all, they said their say (The echoes are ringing still). Admirals all, they went their way To the haven under the hill.

But they left us a kingdom none can take -- The realm of the circling sea -- To be ruled by the rightful sons of Blake, And the Rodneys yet to be. Admirals all, for England's sake, Honour be yours and fame! And honour, as long as waves shall break, To Nelson's peerless name! A Ballad of the Bold "Menelaus" IT WAS morning at St. Helen's, in the great and gallant days, And the sea beneath the sun glittered wide, When the frigate set her courses, all a-shimmer in the haze And she hauled her cable home and took the tide. She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more, Nine and forty guns in tackle running free; And they cheered her from the shore for her colours at the fore, When the bold Menelaus put to sea. She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more, Nine and forty guns in tackle running free; And they cheered her from the shore for her colours at the fore, When the bold Menelaus put to sea.

She was clear of Monte Cristo, she was heading for the land, When she spied a pennant red and white and blue; They were foemen, and they knew it, and they'd half a league in hand, But she flung aloft her royals, and she flew. She was nearer, nearer, nearer, they were caught beyond a doubt, But they slipped her into Orbetello Bay, And the lubbers gave a shout as they paid their cables out, With the guns grinning round them where they lay. Now, Sir Peter was a captain of a famous fighting race, Son and grandson of an admiral was he; And he looked upon the batteries, he looked upon the chase, And he heard the shout that echoed out to sea. And he called across the decks, "Ay! the cheering might be late If they kept it til the Menelaus runs; Bid the master and his mate heave the lead and lay her straight For the prize lying yonder by the guns!" When the summer moon was setting, into Orbetello Bay Came the Menelaus gliding like a ghost; And her boats were manned in silence, and in silence pulled away, And in silence every gunner took his post.

With a volley from her broadside the citadel she woke, And they hammered back like heroes all the night; But before the morning broke she had vanished through the smoke With her prize upon her quarter grappled tight. It was evening at St. Helen's in the great and gallant time, And the sky behind the down was flushing far; And the flags were all a-flutter, and the bells were all a-chime, When the frigate cast her anchor off the bar. She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more, Nine and forty guns in tackle running free; And they cheered her from the shore for the colours at the fore When the bold Menelaus came from the sea. She'd a right fighting company, three hundred men and more, Nine and forty guns in tackle running free; And they cheered her from the shore for the colours at the fore When the bold Menelaus came from the sea. Henry Newbolt DRAKE he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, An' dreamin' arl the time O' Plymouth Hoe.

Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships, Wi' sailor lads a-dancing' heel-an'-toe, An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin', He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago. Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas, (Capten, art tha' sleepin' there below?) Roving' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease, A' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. "Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore, Strike et when your powder's runnin' low; If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, An' drum them up the Channel as we drumm'd them long ago." Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, An' dreamin arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.

Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin' They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago! Henry Newbolt IT WAS eight bells ringing, For the morning watch was done, And the gunner's lads were singing As they polished every gun. It was eight bells ringing, And the gunner's lads were singing, For the ship she rode a-swinging, As they polished every gun. Oh! to see the linstock lighting, Téméraire! Téméraire! Oh! to hear the round shot biting, Téméraire! Téméraire! Oh! to see the linstock lighting, And to hear the round shot biting, For we're all in love with fighting On the fighting Téméraire. And the battle just begun, When the ship her way was winging, As they loaded every gun. It was noontide ringing, When the ship her way was winging, And the gunner's lads were singing As they loaded every gun.

There'll be many grim and gory, Téméraire! Téméraire! There'll be few to tell the story, Téméraire! Téméraire! There'll be many grim and gory, There'll be few to tell the story, But we'll all be one in glory With the Fighting Téméraire. There's a far bell ringing At the setting of the sun, And a phantom voice is singing Of the great days done. There's a far bell ringing, And a phantom voice is singing Of renown for ever clinging To the great days done. Now the sunset breezes shiver, Téméraire! Téméraire! And she's fading down the river, Téméraire! Téméraire! Now the sunset's breezes shiver, And she's fading down the river, But in England's song for ever She's the Fighting Téméraire. IN SEVENTEEN hundred and fifty-nine, When Hawke came swooping from the West, The French King's Admiral with twenty of the line Was sailing forth to sack us, out of Brest.

The ports of France were crowded, the quays of France a-hum With thirty thousand soldiers marching to the drum, For bragging time was over and fighting time was come When Hawke came swooping from the West. 'Twas long past noon of a wild November day When Hawke came swooping from the West; He heard the breakers thundering in Quiberon Bay, But he flew the flag for battle, line abreast. Down upon the quicksands roaring out of sight Fiercely beat the storm-wind, darkly fell the night, But they took the foe for pilot and the cannon's glare for light When Hawke came swooping from the West. The Frenchmen turned like a covey down the wind When Hawke came swooping from the West; One he sank with all hands, one he caught and pinned, And the shallows and the storm took the rest. The guns that should have conquered us they rusted on the shore, The men that would have mastered us they drummed and marched no more, For England was England, and a mighty brood she bore When Hawke came swooping from the West.

Henry Newbolt BESIDE the placid sea that mirrored her With the old glory of dawn that cannot die, The sleeping city began to moan and stir, As one that fain from an ill dream would fly; Yet more she feared the daylight bringing nigh Such dreams as know not sunrise, soon or late, -- Visions of honour lost and power gone by, Of loyal valour betrayed by factious hate, And craven sloth that shrank from the labour of forging fate. They knew and knew not, this bewildered crowd, That up her streets in silence hurrying passed, What manner of death should make their anguish loud, What corpse across the funeral pyre be cast, For none had spoken it; only, gathering fast As darkness gathers at noon in the sun's eclipse, A shadow of doom enfolded them, vague and vast, And a cry was heard, unfathered of earthly lips, "What of the ships, O Carthage?

Carthage, what of the ships?" They reached the wall, and nowise strange it seemed To find the gates unguarded and open wide; They climbed the shoulder, and meet enough they deemed The black that shrouded the seaward rampart's side And veiled in drooping gloom the turrets' pride; But this was nought, for suddenly down the slope They saw the harbour, and sense within them died; Keel nor mast was there, rudder nor rope; It lay like a sea-hawk's eyry spoiled of life and hope. Beyond, where dawn was a glittering carpet, rolled From sky to shore on level and endless seas, Hardly their eyes discerned in a dazzle of gold That here in fifties, yonder in twos and threes, The ships they sought, like a swarm of drowning bees By a wanton gust on the pool of a mill-dam hurled, Floated forsaken of life-giving tide and breeze, Their oars broken, their sails for ever furled, For ever deserted the bulwarks that guarded the wealth of the world.

A moment yet, with breathing quickly drawn And hands agrip, the Carthaginian folk Stared in the bright untroubled face of dawn, And strove with vehement heaped denial to choke Their sure surmise of fate's impending stroke; Vainly -- for even now beneath their gaze A thousand delicate spires of distant smoke Reddened the disc of the sun with a stealthy haze, And the smouldering grief of a nation burst with the kindling blaze. "O dying Carthage!" so their passion raved, "Would nought but these the conqueror's hate assuage? If these be taken, how may the land be saved Whose meat and drink was empire, age by age?" And bitter memory cursed with idle rage The greed that coveted gold beyond renown, The feeble hearts that feared their heritage, The hands that cast the sea-kings' sceptre down And left to alien brows their famed ancestral crown. The endless noon, the endless evening through, All other needs forgetting, great or small, They drank despair with thirst whose torment grew As the hours died beneath that stifling pall.

At last they saw the fires to blackness fall One after one, and slowly turned them home, A little longer yet their own to call A city enslaved, and wear the bonds of Rome, With weary hearts foreboding all the woe to come. Henry Newbolt THERE'S a breathless hush in the Close to-night -- Ten to make and the match to win -- A bumping pitch and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man in. And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat, Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote "Play up! play up! and play the game!" The sand of the desert is sodden red, -- Red with the wreck of a square that broke; -- The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead, And the regiment blind with dust and smoke. The river of death has brimmed his banks, And England's far, and Honour a name, But the voice of schoolboy rallies the ranks, "Play up! play up!

and play the game!" This is the word that year by year While in her place the School is set Every one of her sons must hear, And none that hears it dare forget. This they all with a joyful mind Bear through life like a torch in flame, And falling fling to the host behind -- "Play up! play up! and play the game!" Henry Newbolt IT FELL in the year of Mutiny, At darkest of the night, John Nicholson by Jalándhar came, On his way to Delhi fight. And as he by Jalándhar came, He thought what he must do, And he sent to the Rajah fair greeting, To try if he were true. "God grant your Highness length of days, And friends when need shall be; And I pray you send your Captains hither, That they may speak with me." On the morrow through Jalándhar town The Captains rode in state; They came to the house of John Nicholson, And stood before the gate. The chief of them was Mehtab Singh, He was both proud and sly; His turban gleamed with rubies red, He held his chin full high.

He marked his fellows how they put Their shoes from off their feet; "Now wherefore make ye such ado These fallen lords to greet? "They have ruled us for a hundred years, In truth I know not how, But though they be fain of mastery They dare not claim it now." Right haughtily before them all The durbar hall he trod, With rubies red his turban gleamed, His feet with pride were shod. They had not been an hour together, A scanty hour or so, When Mehtab Singh rose in his place And turned about to go. Then swiftly came John Nicholson Between the door and him, With anger smouldering in his eyes, That made the rubies dim. "You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh," -- Oh, but his voice was low! He held his wrath with a curb of iron That furrowed cheek and brow. "You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh, When that the rest are gone, I have a word that may not wait To speak with you alone." The Captains passed in silence forth And stood the door behind; To go before the game was played Be sure they had no mind.

But there within John Nicholson Turned him on Mehtab Singh, "So long as the soul is in my body You shall not do this thing. "Have ye served us for a hundred years And yet ye know not why? We brook no doubt of our mastery, We rule until we die. "Were I the one last Englishman Drawing the breath of life, And you the master-rebel of all That stir this land to strife -- "Were I," he said, "but a Corporal, And you a Rajput King, So long as the soul was in my body You should not do this thing. "Take off, take off, those shoes of pride, Carry them whence they came; Your Captains saw your insolence, And they shall see your shame." When Mehtab Singh came to the door His shoes they burned his hand, For there in long and silent lines He saw the Captains stand.

When Mehtab Singh rode from the gate His chin was on his breast: The captains said, "When the strong command Obedience is best." SONS of the Island race, wherever ye dwell, Who speak of your fathers' battles with lips that burn, The deed of an alien legion hear me tell, And think not shame from the hearts ye tamed to learn, When succour shall fail and the tide for a season turn, To fight with joyful courage, a passionate pride, To die at last as the Guides of Cabul died. For a handful of seventy men in a barrack of mud, Foodless, waterless, dwindling one by one, Answered a thousand yelling for English blood With stormy volleys that swept them gunner from gun, And charge on charge in the glare of the Afghan sun, Till the walls were shattered wherein they couched at bay, And dead or dying half of the seventy lay. Twice they had taken the cannon that wrecked their hold, Twice toiled in vain to drag it back, Thrice they toiled, and alone, wary and bold, Whirling a hurricane sword to scatter the rack, Hamilton, last of the English, covered their track.

"Never give in!" he cried, and he heard them shout, And grappled with death as a man that knows not doubt. And the Guides looked down from their smouldering barrack again, And behold, a banner of truce, and a voice that spoke: "Come, for we know that the English all are slain, We keep no feud with men of a kindred folk; Rejoice with us to be free of the conqueror's yolk." Silence fell for a moment, then was heard A sound of laughter and scorn, and an answering word. "Is it we or the lords we serve who have earned this wrong, That ye call us to flinch from the battle they bade us fight? We that live -- do ye doubt that our hands are strong? They that are fallen -- ye know that their blood was bright!

Think ye the Guides will barter for lust of light The pride of an ancient people in warfare bred, Honour of comrades living, and faith to the dead?" Then the joy that spurs the warrior's heart To the last thundering gallop and sheer leap Came on the men of the Guides: they flung apart The doors not all their valour could longer keep; They dressed their slender line; they breathed deep, And with never a foot lagging or head bent To the clash and clamour and dust of death they went. Henry Newbolt WHO'S for the Gathering, who's for the Fair? (Gay goes the Gordon to a fight) The bravest of the brave are at deadlock there, (Highlanders! march! by the right!) There are bullets by the hundred buzzing in the air, There are bonny lads lying on the hillside bare; But the Gordons know what the Gordons dare When they hear the pipers playing! The happiest English heart today (Gay goes the Gordon to a fight) Is the heart of the Colonel, hide it as he may; (Steady there!

steady on the right!) He sees his work and he sees his way, He knows his time and the word to say, And he's thinking of the tune that Gordons play When he sets the pipers playing. Rising, roaring, rushing like the tide, (Gay goes the Gordon to a fight) They're up through the fire-zone, not be be denied; (Bayonets! and charge by the right! Thirty bullets straight where the rest went wide, And thirty lads are lying on the bare hillside; But they passed in the hour of the Gordons' pride, To the skirl of the pipers' playing. Henry Newbolt "YE have robb'd," said he, "ye have slaughter'd and made an end, Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead: What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?" "Blood for our blood," they said. He laugh'd: "If one may settle the score for five, I am ready; but let the reckoning stand til day: I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive." "You shall die at dawn," said they.

He flung his empty revolver down the slope, He climb'd alone to the Eastward edge of the trees; All night long in a dream untroubled of hope He brooded, clasping his knees. He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills The ravine where the Yassin river sullenly flows; He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills, Or the far Afghan snows. He saw the April noon on his books aglow, The wistaria trailing in at the window wide; He heard his father's voice from the terrace below Calling him down to ride. He saw the gray little church across the park, The mounds that hid the loved and honour'd dead; The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark, The brasses black and red. He saw the School Close, sunny and green, The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall, The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between, His own name over all. He saw the dark wainscot and timber'd roof, The long tables, and the faces merry and keen; The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof, The Dons on the daïs serene.

He watch'd the liner's stem ploughing the foam, He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw; He heard the passengers' voices talking of home, He saw the flag she flew. And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet, And strode to his ruin'd camp below the wood; He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet: His murderers round him stood. Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast, The blood-red snow-peaks chill'd to dazzling white; He turn'd, and saw the golden circle at last, Cut by the Eastern height. "O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun, I have lived, I praise and adore Thee." A sword swept. Over the pass the voices one by one Faded, and the hill slept. Henry Newbolt WITH failing feet and shoulders bowed Beneath the weight of happier days, He lagged among the heedless crowd, Or crept along suburban ways. But still through all his heart was young, A courage, a pride, a rapture, sprung Of the strength and splendour of England's war.

From ill-requited toil he turned To ride with Picton and with Pack, Among his grammars inly burned To storm the Afghan mountain-track. When midnight chimed, before Quebec He watched with Wolfe till he morning star; At noon he saw from Victory's deck The sweep and splendour of England's war. Beyond the book his teaching sped, He left on whom he taught the trace Of kinship with the deathless dead, And faith in all the Island race. He passed : his life a tangle seemed, His age from fame and power was far; But his heart was night to the end, and dreamed Of the sound and splendour of England's war. Henry Newbolt SITTING at times over a hearth that burns With dull domestic glow, My thought, leaving the book, gratefully turns To you who planned it so. Not of the great only you deigned to tell, -- The stars by which we steer, -- But lights out of the night that flashed, and fell To night again, are here.

Such as were those, dogs of an elder day, Who sacked the golden ports, And those later who dare grapple their prey Beneath the harbour forts: Some with flag at the fore, sweeping the world To find an equal fight, And some who joined war to their trade, and hurled Ships of the line in flight. Whether their fame centuries long should ring They cared not over-much, But cared greatly to serve God and the king, And keep the Nelson touch; And fought to build Britain above the tide Of wars and windy fate; And passed content, leaving to us the pride Of lives obscurely great. LET others praise, as fancy wills, Berlin beneath her trees, Or Rome upon her seven hills, Or Venice by her seas; Stamboul by double tides embraced, Or green Damascus in the waste. For me there's nought I would not leave For the good Devon land, Whose orchards down the echoing cleeve Bedewed with spray-drift stand, And hardly bear the red fruit up That shall be next year's cider-cup.

You too, my friend, may wisely mark How clean skies follow rain, And, lingering in your own green park Or drilled on Laffan's Plain, Forget not with the festal bowl To soothe at times your weary soul. When Drake must bid to Plymouth Hoe Good-bye for many a day, And some were sad and feared to go, And some that dared not stay, Be sure he bade them broach the best, And raised his tankard with the rest. "Drake's luck to all that sail with Drake For promised lands of gold! Brave lads, whatever storms may break, We've weathered worse of old! To-night the loving-cup we'll drain, To-morrow for the Spanish Main!" Henry Newbolt ENGLAND! where the sacred flame Burns before the inmost shrine, Where the lips that love thy name Consecrate their hopes and thine, Where the banners of thy dead Weave their shadows overhead, Watch beside thine arms to-night, Pray that God defend the Right. Think that when to-morrow comes War shall claim command of all, Thou must hear the roll of drums, Thou must hear the trumpet's call.

Now, before they silence ruth, Commune with the voice of truth; England! on thy knees to-night Pray that God defends the Right. Hast thou counted up the cost, What to foeman, what to friend? Glory sought is Honour lost, How should this be knighthood's end? Know'st thou what is Hatred's meed? What the surest gain of Greed? England! wilt thou dare to-night Pray that God defend the Right? So shalt thou when morning comes Rise to conquer or to fall, Joyful hear the rolling drums, Joyful hear the trumpet's call. Then let Memory tell thy heart England! what thou wert, thou art!" Gird thee with thine ancient might, Forth! and God defend the Right! Henry Newbolt Henry Newbolt | Poetry Foundation Poetry Foundation Poet Details 1862–1924 Henry Newbolt is best known for writing poetry that heralded his native England during the reign of Queen Victoria and the early twentieth century. In addition to poetry, Newbolt wrote novels and criticism while enjoying the company of other leading literary figures of the time, such as Henry James, Thomas Hardy, W.B.

Yeats, Ezra Pound, and T.S. Eliot. The lines “Play up! play up! and play the game,” from his poem, “Vitai Lampada,” immortilized Newbolt in the hearts of his fellow countrymen. These words, according to Coulson Kernahan, author of Six Famous Living Poets, were a call to all men and women to defend their country in an hour of need. These famous lines demand that “in life’s battle-field [sic], whether a battle-field only figuratively, or a battle-field in reality to play the game.” Newbolt once lamented those very same words, as their popularity had come to haunt him everywhere he traveled and lectured. Earning his law degree in 1887, Newbolt divided his time between writing and practicing law. He produced a few works, including a novel, Taken from the Enemy and a play, Mordred. During this time, Newbolt also contributed articles to the Law Digest. After twelve years as a lawyer, he finally succumbed to his first love—literature—and devoted himself fulltime to pursuing his art. He married Margaret Edina Duckworth and settled into a writer’s life.

Newbolt’s early work garnered him some minor attention, but his career took off when “Drake’s Drum” appeared in Longman’s Magazine in 1896. Critics everywhere hailed the work as a masterpiece. The poem is a patriotic piece using direct, yet lyrical language that celebrates the spirit of England. “Composed of all the elements which were to characterize Newbolt’s patriotic ballads—memorable lines, musical rhythms perfectly attuned to subject and theme, patriotic fervor, simple, direct, unrhetorical language,” stated Dictionary of Literary Biography contributor James G. Nelson, “‘Drake’s Drum’ is the epitome of what endeared the poet to his admiring public.” It was published again one year later in a collection called Admirals All and Other Verses. Together with eleven additional Newbolt poems, the collection was a bestseller, enjoying thirty printings by 1910 and turning Newbolt into an national celebrity. Newbolt’s fame was dually credited to his craft and the pride that was instilled in England’s citizens during that time, causing the poem to deeply resonate with its audience. He continued with similar themes and wrote twenty-eight more poems for the collection, The Island Race.

With the success of his poetry reaching ever higher levels, Newbolt was afforded flexibility to explore his art. He experimented with the use of classical meters, mixing up the rhythm of his lines, an original technique that critics praised. With this technique, Newbolt had truly made his mark and distinguished himself apart from other poets of the time. The Island Race was rich in patriotism, yet Newbolt fully knew the dangers of blind faith in one’s country. This sentiment is evident in the opening poem of the collection, “Vigil,” a poem that addresses the Boer War. Newbolt writes, “Know’st thou what is Hatred’s meed? What the surest gain of Greed? England! wilt thou dare to-night [sic] Pray that God defend the Right?” Newbolt not only gained the respect of critics for dealing with patriotism in such a complex and respective manner, but furthered the admiration among his peers, such as W.B. Yeats. At this time Newbolt turned his attention to prose, writing two novels and an historical treatise in the span of fours years. The historical book, The Year of Trafalgar, was published in 1905.

In 1907 Newbolt followed with The Old Country: A Romance, which took place in the hometown of Frome, where Newbolt’s wife was raised. Third, The New June: A Novel appeared in 1909. An historical romance novel, Newbolt wrote about Richard II, but put his characters in modern-day dress and speech. The Saturday Review hailed it as “a story that is not only historically true but that rings true to the reader,” the critic going on to praise the work for its ability to place the reader in the middle of the action as if Newbolt’s audience were “taking part in heroic happenings.” Newbolt expanded his repertoire and moved beyond the subject of patriotism in some of his later poetical works, including The Sailing of the Long-Ships and Other Poems, Songs of Memory and Hope, and Poems New and Old. In the poem “The Presentation,” Newbolt explores themes of love, nature, and family; in “Ave, Soror,” the subject matter concerns lost innocence; “Rilloby Rill,” has a light-hearted, humorous tone; “The Return of Summer: An Ecologue,” pays tribute to the poets of the Renaissance.

Poems New and Old, Newbolt’s most comprehensive collection, sold so many copies it went back to the printer five times. At the same time Poems New and Old enjoyed its success, Newbolt worked in the military service during World War I. A devoted public servant, Newbolt held posts with the Admiralty and the Foreign Office, as well as the Ministry of Information. Newbolt was knighted in 1915 as a result of his poetic abilities and his dedication to his country. His last collection of poetry, St. George’s Day and Other Poems included pieces on the war, but it did not receive much critical praise. At that time Newbolt turned his attention to poetry and prose criticism, as well as more novels.

In addition to The Book of the Blue Sea and The Book of the Thin Red Line, his Tales of the Great War was praised for its objectivity by a writer for the Springfield Republican, being “singularly free from hatred and abuse of the enemy.” The reviewer continued to recommend the book to “everyone interested in the great war [as they] will find much material in [the] book to form an adequate picture of the battles already waged on land and sea.” In 1931 Newbolt published the first of two volumes of his autobiography titled My World as in My Time. He died before completing the second volume, but his wife, Margaret, published The Later Life and Letters of Sir Henry Newbolt in 1942, four years after her husband’s death. Newbolt’s impressive collection of works stands as a firm representative of his unique talent. Despite Kernahan’s prediction that Newbolt would be well remembered in the future for his patriotic poems, saying “Could we thus step forward a hundred years, I question whether we should find that as much even as the very name of more than half a dozen living poets would be remembered... .

Henry Newbolt’s name will be there,” and despite the fact that his work was highly praised during his time, Newbolt remains relatively unknown in modern literary circles. “A poetry now quite foreign to the contemporary idiom,” explained Nelson, “Newbolt’s ballads and lyrics seem destined to survive only as single lines in our memories ... and as period pieces in our anthologies.” Bibliography A Fair Death, Simpkin, Marshall (London), 1881. Taken from the Enemy, Chatto & Windus (London), 1892. Mordred: A Tragedy, Unwin (London), 1895. Admirals All and Other Verses, Elkin Mathews (London), 1897. The Island Race, Elkin Mathews, 1898, John Lane, 1899. Stories from Froissart, Macmillan (New York, NY), 1899. Froissart in Britain, J. Nisbet (London), 1900. The Sailing of the Long-Ships and Other Poems, Appleton (New York City), 1901.

The Year of Trafalgar, Murray, 1905. The Old Country: A Romance, Smith, Elder (London), 1906. Clifton Chapel and Other School Poems, Murray, 1908. Songs of Memory and Hope, Murray, 1909. The New June: A Novel, Blackwood (London), 1909. (Author of introduction) The Book of Cupid, F. A. Stokes (New York City), 1910. Collected Poems, 1897-1907, Nelson (London), 1910. The Twymans: A Tale of Youth, Blackwood, 1911. Poems New and Old, Murray, 1912. Drake's Drum and Other Songs of the Sea, Hodder & Stoughton (London), 1914. The Book of the Blue Sea, Longmans, Green (London), 1914. Aladore, Blackwood, 1914. The King's Highway, The Poetry Bookshop (London), 1915.

The Story of the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry, the Old 43rd and 52nd Regiments, Batsford (London), 1915. The Book of the Thin Red Line, Longmans, Green, 1915. Tales of the Great War, Longmans, Green, 1916. A New Study of English Poetry, Constable (London), 1917. The Book of the Happy Warrior, Longmans, Green, 1917. St. George's Day and Other Poems, Murray, 1918. Submarine and Anti-Submarine, Longmans, Green, 1918. The Book of the Long Trail, Longmans, Green, 1919. Poetry and Time, Oxford University Press, 1919. The Book of Good Hunting, Longmans, Green, 1920. A Naval History of the War, 1914-1918, Hodder and Stoughton (London), 1920. Prose and Poetry from the Works of Henry Newbolt, Dutton (New York City), 1920.

A Book of the Grenvilles, Longmans, Green, 1921. A Book of Verse, Chosen for Students at Home and Abroad, G. Bell & Sons (London), 1922. (Editor) An English Anthology of Prose and Poetry, Shewing the Main Stream of English Literature through Six Centuries, J. M. Dent (London), 1922. Heroes of Land and Sea, Longmans, Green, 1923. (Editor) Essays and Essayists, Nelson, 1925. (Editor) The Greenwood: A Collection of Literary Readings Relating to Robin Hood, Nelson, 1925. (Editor) Sea-Life in English Literature from the Fourteenth to the Nineteenth Century, Nelson, 1925. Noble English, Nelson, 1925. The Tide of Time in English Poetry, Nelson, 1925. Studies Green and Gray, Nelson (London), 1926. The Linnet's Nest, Faber & Gwyer (London), 1927. The Building of Britain, Nelson, 1928.

The Idea of an English Association, Oxford University Press, (Oxford), 1928. (Author of introduction) Devotional Poets of the XVII Century, Nelson, 1929. A Child Is Born, Faber & Faber (London), 1931. My World as in My Time, Faber & Faber, 1932. A Perpetual Memory and Other Poems, Murray, 1939. (With John Buchan) Days to Remember: The British Empire in the Great War, Nelson, 1939. (Edited by John Betjeman) Selected Poems, Nelson, 1940. (Edited by Margaret Newbolt) The Later Life and Letters of Sir Henry Newbolt, Faber & Faber, 1942. Rilloby-rill, J.P. O'Hara (Chicago, IL), 1973. Discover this poet's context and related poetry, articles, and media. Poems by Henry Newbolt

Question: Who wrote the 1897 poem 'Drake's Drum'?
Answer: HENRY NEWBOLT